shit storms, shame, and stories that make you cringe

Category: guest posts

It seems like the caliber of friends I’ve met through blogging is a lot higher than the friends I have in person. That’s the best part of blogging, really – the people. All my friends want to talk about in person is their marriage, kids, work, or how long it took their mother to shovel all the snow off her balcony in Maine so Fido can get out to poop in case it’s urgent. Blah blah blah blah blah. Enough is enough already! For the love of God – no more. I’d rather hang out with the majority of fellow bloggers I’ve talked to over my friends in person. Crazy, right? (Hey… I’ve given y’all fair warning that I’m weird.)

Well, I’m finally getting back to sharing guest posts that I’ve been slacking on lately. And, don’t worry – this blogger is a lot funnier than my friends in real life. So, you’re welcome. Make sure you’re you visit Lady Dickson on her blog. She is piss-your-pants-funny. Or diaper. Don’t worry… this is a judgment-free zone so we embrace all differences.

Let’s get on with it then:

In 2013, my husband and I went on a 6 month tour of Europe. On our stop in Portugal, we decided “hey, let’s go to Morocco since it’s right there” and off to Morocco we did. Gotta love last minute decisions like that. Here’s the thing, I’ve been to third world. I went to Thailand in 2008 and it was a friggin blast. But this seemed like a completely different kind of third world. Whilst in Thailand, I could use the public bathrooms whenever I wanted without paying. Coming over to Morocco, and a lot of Europe I might add, I had to start paying to urinate.

What the fuck is this nonsense. I ate your food, I drank your water, I paid my bill, and now you want me to pay to extract all dis bidniz you supplied out of my body? That shit cray.

Naturally, as I am not used to doing so, I forget to bring my change purse with me to the bathroom of this one rooftop restaurant located in the centre of Marrakesh. Thankfully, there was no one on guard to give money to so I figured this was a rare free washroom. SCORE. I know where I’m coming from now on to drop trou.

During my healthy dump, I hear a woman screaming at someone in Arabic and think “oh man, I would hate to get yelled at in a language I don’t know.” Turns out, she was yelling at me but I was completely clueless of it. The second I stepped out of the stall, she was all up in my grill pointing at her dish beside the door. Naturally, I looked like a deer caught in headlights and threw my hands in air and kept repeating “I don’t know what you’re saying…” Obviously, I needed to leave some money in the dish beside the door.

MY BAD.

Now I had to somehow tell her I don’t have money on me.

Me: I don’t have any money on me.
Woman yelling in Arabic.Me: I don’t….have any…money on me. *flipping my pockets inside out*
Woman yelling in Arabic.Me: Not…sure where to go from here.

So I just try to leave but she barricades herself against the door. Perfect, this is going well. I just fold my arms, look at her, and tap my foot on the ground. With how long this is taking, my husband must be thinking I am murdering this toilet.

Finally, I had enough of this. I started screaming my husbands name in a zero percent passionate way. I mean, this was not the womans fault. Some white chick who doesn’t know how to follow the rules popped a squat all willy nilly and girlfriend needs to get PAID. I was willing to pay her, I JUST NEEDED MY GODDAMN COIN PURSE.

After screaming my husbands name for about a minute, she finally gives in. She moves out of the way and lets me out of the bathroom. As I’m leaving, she starts yelling at me again and I just sprint up the stairs to the roof, grab my husband and we gone.

Get your fat pants on and lose those shirts, people … it’s time to let your nipples free for WTF Wednesday! Wooooo. Okay, that’s not really a thing. It just seemed like it would be fitting for this post. I think you’ll agree after you finish reading. (With the ‘what the fuck.’ Probably not the nipples. Nipples really have nothing to do with anything. Sorry, pervs.)

I’m excited to share a post written by an awesome blogger ’round these parts – Charlotte Graham (go on and visit her – I’ll wait.) I’m going to go out on a limb here, and say – if we knew each other in person we would probably be best friends (until I scared her away, at least.) She’s a runner, gamer, Panthers fan, writer, and a nerd with style. Girl crush alert. (I can say that without it being creepy, right? Since I’m married? Right?!) Let’s get on with it, then!

Today while walking to work I found an abandoned voodoo doll on a park bench. True story. If it weren’t negative a billion degrees outside and if I had actually been able to feel my fingers, I would have snapped a photo. Alas.

But, the day was soon to be filled with even more creepy dolls, when a friend posted the following on Facebook:

​Creepy AF, amirite?!

My first question when I saw this was, “do parents really save all their kids’ baby teeth??” I had always just assumed that dear old Mom and Dad threw them in the trash once the Tooth Fairy made her rounds. I mean really, if you’re a parent and you hang onto your kids’ teeth and don’t do something weird like this with them, what do you do? Present them all in a fancy box upon your child’s 18th birthday? Here ya go, son. I thought about getting you a car for graduation. But here are your baby teeth instead!

But now apparently you can turn those baby teeth into a scary-ass doll!

Now, I’m not a parent, so far be it from me to say if this would actually be sentimental were it my child’s leftover baby teeth — but damn!

I think dolls in general are creepy, but these human teeth monster dolls take it to a whole new level. Folks, this is what I like to call Grade A Nightmare Fuel. Have fun sleeping tonight.

Guys, this should go without saying – teeth monster plushies are not okay.

Everyone goes through times when they are put into awkward situations. Sometimes you can run away while screaming bloody murder. Sometimes you have to adapt and deal with that patronizing asshole in accounting. Life…. am I right?

Today I’m sharing a story from hotmessmemoir – a kickass blogger here who has a job where she just doesn’t belong. (Make sure you take a visit to her blog. It’s hilarious.) Read it. Laugh about it. Print it out and rub it all over your naked body. I won’t judge. We’re all friends here.

I wear an A at work (please google the Scarlet Letter movie if you’ve not read the book or saw Demi Moore’s movie). Aside from a few good seeds, it’s taken months just to get a smile when I say “good morning” or “hello” to a co-worker. I’m not holding my breath for a verbal salutation.

See, I am a stiletto wearing fashionista working for a Southwest company that sells boots, tact supplies and Southwest fashion. I’m the Assistant Buyer for cowboy boots. Yes, cowboy boots. It’s o.k to laugh, I did too.

To be “part of the club” you have to live the lifestyle. Living the lifestyle means either A. ride a horse consistently B. live on a farm C. own livestock or D. a combination of any of the 3. 98% of my co-workers are covered under one or all of these. When I asked them if my former collection of My Little Ponies counted, they were not amused. When I told them I had livestock and it consisted of a 12 lb, 13 year old chihuahua, they removed themselves from the conversation.

During one of my first weeks, I struck up a conversation with a co-worker. She always wore a smile, was always bubbly and was approachable. When we walked out to our cars one night we made the usual pleasantries.

“So what are you and Tray doing this weekend?” I asked.

“We are going heifer shopping,” she said as if she had just told me she was going to see Star Wars.

“Come again?”

“We are going heifer shopping. Cows.” She explained remembering that I was a foreigner.

I suddenly brought my immature brain back into adulthood and remembered that heifer is the name of a young female cow. But then immature brain could not resist the opportunity and responded with, “If you want to go heifer shopping there is a really seedy bar down the way….” Oh my God, did I just say that?

She was polite when responding to my completely inappropriate comment and just faked laughed.

Another time I tried to be “part of the club”. I found my one article of horse paraphernalia I owned, a shirt from a mud volleyball tournament to raise money for epilepsy.

My father passed away 13 years ago from epilepsy. Every year my younger sister would raise money and organize a team for mud volleyball. Because our father looked like Rocky and even went as Rocky Balboa one year for Halloween, she selected Italian Stallions as the team name. I thought about playing in the tournament. I used to LOVE playing in it as a child every year but then I thought ‘nah, I’ll get too dirty, here’s $25 for a shirt’.

I really don’t know why the “addition” was added to the graphic shirt but regardless, it had a horse on it so I threw it on fully intending to wear it to work. Here it is:

Too much?

I texted my sister this picture. She works in HR and below was her response:

By all that is holy, I am begging you NOT to wear that to work. If you wear that to work you will be fired. DO NOT WEAR THAT. Do you copy?

I growled under my breath, rolling my eyes. She was right. It was a little much but I didn’t have any other horsey thing to wear. In the end I changed as I like to keep the electric on and food in my children’s bellies.

So that is one of many stories of attempting to fit in. Stories are so easy when you are the outsider with a sense of humor ;).

If you’ve emailed me a submission for a guest post – I will be getting to yours soon. Thanks for your patience/badassness 🙂 I would share my wine with you if I could. But not the cheesecake. No… definitely not the cheesecake.

I know I’m not the only one around these parts that enjoys a good poem about bumpin’ uglies. So, I thought it would be fun to share a piece from one of my favorite people on WordPress. She’s one of the nicest people here and she is hilarious. If you don’t know who pixieannie is already, make sure you visit her blog. You’ll find an amazing person there – a fitness lover, animal lover, an amazing photographer, she’s got tattoos all over and has the best workout clothes. (Seriously… can we switch lives, please?)

Here’s her short & hilarious poem:

I set fire to my bed last night
the first time I shagged Gary
my ma and pa came in the room
and said that we should marry

I remember from the science class
that friction made stuff hot
bugger me, I’d not have guessed
but blamed it on the pot

roll on three years later
and we have a kid name Boo
he’s a proper little ‘ooligan
filled the petrol tank with glue

I guess it’s safe to say now
that we shag at a slower pace
but just in case the spark ignites
there’s a water bed in case

Sometimes it’s nice to have a friend that’s a cop so you can ask them burning questions like: ‘would you take diarrhea as an excuse for speeding home?‘ I don’t know any cops in real life – I think they can sense the crazy and steer clear of me until they get the phone call that forces them to my doorstep. Because they know it’s coming someday. Lucky for me, I found a cop-friend here in blogland.(And yes, I asked him about the diarrhea & speeding question.) He runs a humor blog that chronicles the random and crazy shit that goes on during his shift. It’s like watching the crazies on the show Cops, but reading it instead. It’s hilarious and semi-alarming (because people are so dumb.) But… don’t laugh at people’s idiocy, guys. That would be wrong. So very wrong. (Says the chick that loves laughing at idiots)

“One night I pulled up to a traffic collision scene in which a vehicle had collided into a wall. The suspect vehicle was an SUV and its rear door was open. I walked up to the vehicle and saw an officer frantically rubbing his hands with an alcohol wipe. In fact, he was rubbing his hands so fast I thought the friction was going to start a fire.

He had a worried look on his face as he said, “Do you have any hand sanitizer.”

“No. Why?”

He then walked over to the suspect vehicle and showed me something that looked like a pink hammer. As I got closer, I saw it was a sex toy.

“What the heck is that?” I asked.

He said, “I was patting him down and I pulled that out of his pocket. The guy told me he used that on his girlfriend tonight.”

The officer wasn’t wearing gloves at the time and I busted up laughing. I laughed so loud someone would’ve wondered what was wrong with me. The poor officer didn’t think it was that funny though. He actually had a traumatized look on his face and I couldn’t blame him. I then took my phone out and snapped a picture of the thing.

Of course, the story was told over and over again after that. Everyone had the same look of shock and disgust when they saw the picture and heard the story.

A few days later, I was in Target when I saw this curling iron on one of the main aisles. I instantly thought of the cop when I saw it. I sent him a picture hoping he would think it was as funny as I did. Luckily he was cool about it.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about having guest posters here once in awhile. I don’t have the mental capacity to post every day (seriously, how do y’all do it? I can sit down after 2 days of not posting, and still draw a blank.) So, I thought it would be cool to share some funny stories from other people. Maybe you have a blog you don’t want to write inappropriate stories on, or it would be too off topic, or… you just want to share something hilarious with the kickass readers here. Well… I enjoy a good sex, poop, any embarrassing or funny personal story in general. I don’t run a classy joint, contrary to popular belief. Okay, I’m pretty sure nobody believes that.

(I’ve never done this before, and I’m feeling very much like the new-kid. Are there protocols? Common courtesies? Secrets I should know about? Help a girl out.) If you have a story you want to share, you can email me @ theshamefulsheep@gmail.com